A Little Civility before Work
by SylvieT
Summary: How can a man so socially awkward, so emotionally guarded as Grissom be a friend to someone like Lady Heather? What could have happened between them during Lady Heather's Box to warrant such loyalty in later seasons? No GSR.


A/N: The Grissom and Sara Romance is what got me reading fan fiction, Lady Heather and the unfinished business in _Leave out All the Rest_ what got me writing it, and I've never looked back. This story has been in my head for a while and demanded to be written but be warned, a lot of you won't like it.

I love _Lady Heather's Box_. Actually, I love every episode Heather's appeared in, even LOATR. I love Lady Heather, her intensity, the persona, the mystery of the woman behind the mask, the counterfoil for Grissom's intellect. Their relationship is a complicated one, their deep, loyal friendship and possibly more in season three always so fascinating to me. The chemistry and easy intimacy, the love and affection, the deep-seated respect between the characters (or the actors playing their parts maybe?) is all consuming and undeniable, which is why IMO so many _people _love to hate Lady Heather.

I don't think Heather's the one to blame in the relationship. I don't even think she ever was a threat to GSR despite what might or not have happened during _LHB_. Grissom's not all innocent and played his part too and let's not forget that Sara had been going out with Hank for almost a year during that time; a fact which was known to Grissom, as we all know. He was a free agent.

But, how can a man so socially awkward, so emotionally guarded as Grissom be a friend to someone like Lady Heather? What happened between them during _Lady Heather's Box_ to warrant such loyalty in later seasons?

Some dialogue gratefully borrowed from that episode and sadly, is not mine.

**

* * *

**

**A Little Civility before Work.**

* * *

She blew out the match she'd been using to light the candles on the candelabra. "Very good, Mr Grissom," she said, turning and meeting his gaze with an intense one of her own, her lips pursing upward.

He acknowledged her praise with a small nod of his head and the hint of a smile on his lips. "I'm just repeating what I've heard."

"You're a good listener."

"Part of the job."

She moved closer to him, stepping into his private space. "So this is work."

An amused smile twitched at his lips, his gaze, soft and complicit, holding hers steadily. "Yes. But I value your insight."

"I'm flattered. But you already seemed to know the answers to your questions." He stared at her lips while she talked and closed the distance between them until she stood eye to eye with him. So close, so desirable, so…easily attainable. "You keep me in proximity when I walk away and when I'm close you watch my lips. Are you losing your hearing?"

The breath caught in his throat and he flicked his gaze up, meeting her eyes, smiling at how transparent he was, at how easily she'd read him. "I'm losing my balance."

"Your sense of self?"

"No," he replied with confidence. His gaze unwavering never left hers, allowing her eyes to continue peeling away every single layer concealing the darkest recesses of his soul, his deepest secrets, his fears and insecurities until she could see the man stood there naked and bare and with nothing left to hide. His sense of self had never been more defined, more cognizant than here, now, with her. "I know who I am," he added in a whisper.

"Do you?"

A satisfied smile played round the edges of his mouth. "Yes, I do."

His hand left his side, moving up to her face, ever so gentle, yet firm and assured, brushing the hair away from her face, cupping her cheek, the longing, the desire and attraction in his eyes, unconcealed. The softness and intimacy in his gesture seemed to startle her yet he knew he wasn't overstepping the mark.

His gaze once again drifted to her lips, lips so full and luscious, so alluring and familiar that he knew every dip and swell, every line and tremor, and he could only stare at them, mesmerised, wanting nothing more at that moment in time than to kiss them, taste them, make them his. He tilted his head to the side ever so slightly, ever so softly, his gaze gliding back up to her eyes, boring into them ardently as he communicated his intentions.

Reading the emotion in him, emotion she mirrored perfectly, Heather closed her eyes and leaned her face into his touch, her breath hitching slightly at his fervour, at the fact that he was acting on his feelings, that he was taking control. Smiling, Grissom slowly brought his other hand to her face, framing it perfectly and stared into the depths of her, into her soul, a direct pathway to the woman hiding behind the Dominatrix, a woman as exposed to his eye as he was to hers.

Their eyes were teasing, kissing, tasting long before their lips touched.

There, on that landing in the busy Dominion, stood two people who lived their lives behind intricately constructed professional and personal masks and who unexplainably trusted each other implicitly with secrets they needn't share, secrets they both knew would never be betrayed. His were safe with her, as hers were with him.

At that moment in his life, being with her felt right, natural, longed-for. There was an undeniable chemistry he'd only felt once before and never acted upon. Here, now, he would act upon it; he'd flirted, she'd flirted back, the raw energy flowing back and forth between them unrestrained, uninhibited and an incredible turn-on.

He was going to make love to her and they both knew it.

"You can always say stop," he said in a whisper, acknowledging the power shift in the relationship, giving her a way out.

"So can you," she replied re-establishing the status quo, both equals in this.

Her lips parted invitingly as her eyes drifted shut, a soft gasp of anticipation escaping and Grissom almost closed the gap between them, stopping millimetres away from her face so he could take her in, breathe her in, fill himself with her until the pulsating ache became unbearable.

He knew without words that Heather, despite a very public image and persona, valued and guarded her privacy as much as he did his and seldom took lovers. He knew without words that like him she felt the deep connection, a profound affection, the search for a mate – a soul mate – but he knew too that despite said connection, they weren't in love with each other and would never be. Regardless, at that moment in time, none of it mattered; none of it needed to be spoken aloud. They were just two unattached consenting adults who felt right together, who needed each other, wanted each other and who weren't ready to say _stop_.

Her eyes fluttered open, enquiring and he tilted her head to the side, leaning forward and pressing a gentle, tentative kiss to the corner of her lips before pulling back slightly. Her smile then was so soft and tender, so loving and welcoming, her eyes on reopening so dark with desire that the nerve temporarily left him.

Her gaze narrowed at his hesitation, her smile suddenly twisting knowingly. "You like my lips," she almost whispered, unable to hide the surprise from her voice.

His face pursed as he realised that he'd been caught staring again and he shrugged. "Yes," he replied at last, the word coming out in a breath. His thumb slid across her cheek, brushing very slowly over her lips to the spot he'd only just kissed, causing her to gasp audibly. "They're beautiful," he said in a murmur meeting her eyes. "Do you read lips?"

She looked down to his lips and tilted her head to the side, her finger lifting to his mouth in a mirror gesture of his own. "Only yours," she said, smiling and catching his eye as she traced the outline of his lips with one long, painted fingernail.

His eyes closed, his lips parting welcomingly, the tip of his tongue darting out in reckless abandon. "And what are my lips telling you now?" he whispered, his eyes reopening.

"Kiss me," she breathed, mouthing the words so quietly that he wondered briefly whether he'd dreamed them, whether his sense of hearing, his balance had once again deserted him.

He surged forward, taking those lips in a searing kiss, his frantic need only equalled by her ardent response. His hands moved to her neck, slipping under the thin straps of her dress as he deepened the kiss, her mouth as soft and moist and inviting as her lips. A door closed noisily somewhere in the Dominion, startling him out of his enchantment, back to his senses, and he pulled back painfully, loosening the hold he had on her lest they should be seen.

He breathed for an instant, and then smiled as he let his eyes run free, brushing, stroking, kissing down the expanse of her neck, to her throat, her heaving bosom before closing them at the overwhelming surge of desire that threatened to overcome him. Silently, she took his hand and led him to her room, locking the door after them; the moon's the only light filtering in casting dancing shadows through the Venetian blinds.

Before she could turn toward him, he slowly pulled the back zip of her dress down along the curve of her spine to the small of her back and slipped his hand under the fabric, gently skimming it round over her skin to the swell of her right breast, hard and pert, heaving. She moaned as he cupped her breast, teasing his fingers over the nipple and he shut his eyes, closing the gap between them from behind. His other hand pushed her hair to the side, his mouth moving to the soft skin of her shoulder blade, her hand coming over to the back of his head, stroking, tugging through his hair as she pulled him closer to her, needing and wanting, her head turning toward his until their lips met in a passionate, lust-filled groan.

He abandoned her mouth and trailed slow, hungry kisses along her shoulder, nudging, tugging the strap of her dress out of the way while his hand left her breasts and brushed down the small swell of her stomach, slipping just under the trim of her lace panties. Her chest heaved faster at his touch, her heart quickening with every teasing stroke of his fingers on her skin, her breath hitching until it came out as quick, craving, aching pants.

She turned round, the dress cascading down in a heap at her feet, and brought her gaze up to his. Her eyes were smiling, kissing, loving him senselessly back and his breath caught at how beautiful she was underneath, his gaze flicking downward to the rest of her, standing naked, bare, exposed but for her black knee-length boots, stockings and garters, and black lacy French knickers.

A deep feral groan escaped his lips. She reached up and pulled his jacket off, dropping it to the floor before slowly unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it out of his pants and off him in slow measured moves. Her eyes never left his, her movement feeding off his evident consuming desire. His chest rising and falling painfully with each breath he took, Grissom looked up and met her gaze dead on and they both smiled, conspirators in this.

He didn't feel embarrassed, self-conscious or awkward under her scrutiny. On the contrary, he felt strangely liberated; of his mask, of his inhibitions, his ineptitudes with women, of his social awkwardness. With her there was no need to pretend, to be someone he wasn't; he could just be himself, let his feelings and emotion run free for an hour or two. Her touch felt natural, familiar, as known to him as his own and at that moment in time he wanted her like he'd only ever wanted one other woman in his life.

He wanted her and she wanted him just as much and that certainty filled him with confidence. He felt himself relax even more, his already throbbing penis hardening so taut that he ached, his senses already on high alert all the more heightened by that knowledge.

He kept his eyes steadfast on hers, his breathing quick and shallow as she scraped long hard fingernails over his chest, digging into his skin just hard enough for the gentle pain to morph into excruciating pleasure before stopping at the waistband of his pants. Words were not needed and none were spoken as she expertly tugged at the belt, loosening it in one practised pull before popping the button and lowering the zipper of his pants as she freed him of his binds.

His shoes, socks and pants were off him in an instant. He moved forward toward her, his lips attacking her throat as he pressed himself hard into her, pushing her against the bedroom wall, his hands moving to her ass, under the panties, grabbing it, kneading it possessively, greedily. With a hungry, lust-filled moan, his mouth glided down to her breast, licking, sucking, gorging himself with it, one hand staying firmly on her ass, the other moving to her front, spreading her legs apart, touching her, stroking her, entering her through the gossamer lace covering her already swollen, throbbing sex.

He kneeled down before her, closing his eyes at the surge of desire, the frenetic need to take her and satiate his hunger, letting it wash over him, before looking up to meet her darkened gaze. She was breathing hard, her mouth parted to make way for her pants and moans of pleasure, her eyes staring unblinkingly back down at him. He took a moment to catch his breath, watching her, smiling through bleary eyes as he unzipped each boot in turn, divesting her legs of them, taking away the last of the Dominatrix.

God, the woman stepping out of the boots, small and vulnerable, was magnificent.

There was an urgency to his actions now, to his passion, urgency so uncharacteristic that it took Heather by surprise, took him by surprise. He got to his feet, breathing hard, and lifted her up onto him, parting her legs quickly to make way for his body, roughly pulling her panties to the side as he lined himself up against her.

Heather kept her eyes locked to his at all times and wrapped her legs around him, grinding herself against him, teasing, enticing, almost pushing him over the edge. She threw her head back and reached up above her head, grabbing the wall light fixings, supporting some of her weight before slowly arching her pelvis as he lowered her onto him. In perfect sync, they closed their eyes and waited while the overcoming sensations of their bodies finally making one washed over them.

Before long his mouth attacked her neck, kissing, licking, biting and he began to thrust upward, ramming into her hard, their movement perfectly coordinated. "Bed," he commanded in a hoarse whisper after a moment and she reopened her eyes, nodding.

He slipped out of her, still hard and throbbing, and lowered her still-stockinged legs to the floor before taking her by the hand, leading her to the bed. There he turned her round and pushed her roughly down over the edge of the bed, entering her from behind, catching her off guard. He felt her tightening around him, instinctively resisting his incursion at first but when he firmly took hold of her hips and began thrusting back and forth she relaxed, arching her back downward to grant him deeper access, grabbing a tight hold of the bed covers, submitting herself to his control.

He was now in charge and they knew it and both wanted it this way.

His pounding intensified, matched only by their crescending moans and groans as they neared release. When he felt she was at the cusp, he slowed down and slid his hand between them to their joined bodies, feeling their wetness, their arousal seep through to his fingers and he closed his eyes, stroking, teasing her pulsating clitoris with gentle circles until she came, loud, hard and fast around him. Only then did he allow himself his release inside her.

* * *

He awoke to a darkened room, feeling strangely calm, at ease and sated. He knew instantly where he was but noticed the drapes had been pulled shut, keeping the morning light out. The bed lay empty but for her scent, a musky smell that lingered on all around him. She was everywhere; on his pillow, his skin, his tongue, his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking in the heady sensations, his sense of well-being and of peace. He felt no awkwardness, no regret. He liked where he was and what had happened between them.

He pushed the bed sheet back and checked the time on his watch, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, smiling to himself as he thought of Brass and his words of advice. He already had the sports car, which he handled perfectly, and now he had the woman. Maybe Brass was right and he was going through some kind of middle age life crisis.

He got up and dressed in yesterday's clothes neatly folded over the Ottoman in the corner of the room, and met her downstairs following the sound of the whistling tea kettle to the kitchen. She turned immediately, her lips forming into a soft complicit smile on seeing him, the type of smile shared by long-time lovers comfortable in each other's presence.

Watching her, he casually leaned his head on the door jamb and returned her smile. "You should have woken me," he said quietly.

"You're worried they'll wonder where you are?"

"No."

She pondered the sincerity of his reply and then smiled. "I was about to," she said, nodding toward the awaiting breakfast tray. "Breakfast?"

He looked at the tray she'd prepared, understanding the hidden message behind that one intention; her insecurities, fears that maybe he would regret what had happened between them, or that their connection, a possible friendship would be tainted by it.

"Always," he replied softly, smiling and meeting her eyes.

Her face softened affectionately at his answer. "Would you like to take it to the patio?"

"Sure." Grissom took the tray and preceded her to the patio. He set the tray down on the table, sat down and began pouring them each a cup of tea. "What did you consider this?" he asked pleasantly. "A little civility before work, I think?"

"Or a ritual to put us at ease. Or what about, 'in custom and ceremony are innocence and beauty born'."

He smiled. "Yates. Prayer for my Daughter."

"Or our morning."

"Cream?" he asked.

"Please." She watched as he obliged. "Thank you."

"Sugar?"

She shook her head. "I'm diabetic." She looked up toward him, smiling as she said the word.

The wheels of his criminalist brain started turning. "Type one?" he asked as he placed her cup in front of her.

"Huh, huh," she replied with a smile, unaware of what was going through his mind, as though their conversation was the most natural one for two lovers to be having over breakfast.

It wasn't. "Injections?"

"Used to mean injections. I changed to a pressure syringe." She picked up her tea cup.

His focus had entirely shifted now and he was in full CSI mode. "Recently?"

"A few weeks ago," she replied quite innocently, naively even, meeting his gaze, unaware that the more she unwittingly confided in him, the more she incriminated herself in his murder investigation. "Oh, it's a fascinating instrument. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, I would," he replied as she blew off a little steam and took a sip of her tea, unmindful of the tone change in his voice. "But I'm afraid I'll need a warrant."

Heather stopped mid-sip and lifted her head. Her initial look of shock turned to deep disappointment, his words the worst possible act of betrayal in her eyes.

"Excuse me," Grissom said as he got to his feet and fished his cell out of his pocket to call Brass, openly asking him to draw up a warrant for her medical paraphernalia.

"I think I just heard you say stop," she murmured as he put his cell away, her voice so saddened with disappointment that Grissom almost looked stunned by it, as though he hadn't realised the consequences his actions would have on their burgeoning relationship.

"I'm sorry. I-I-"

She smiled but her smile was forced, pained, and regretful, and got to her feet. Heather was gone making way for the Dominatrix. "Save your breath," she said, "just let me know when Captain Brass gets here."

* * *

Grissom brought his hand to the knocker, keeping it hovering there for a moment wondering whether he was doing the right thing, debating the wisdom of his returning to her so soon after the case, so soon after what had happened between them. He sighed and with no more hesitation, lowered the knocker down onto the wooden door hard, decisive.

If he had to put his actions into words, explain it in a rational way, he would come short. He was compelled by Heather, the woman hiding behind the Dominatrix, the woman who had simply revealed herself to him as he had to her, entrusting him with herself. She was fascinating, entrancing him as no other woman had ever done, not even Sara. Physically, mentally, spiritually, he couldn't deny the connection, the affinity, the meeting of two minds, of two beings very much alike and he hated himself for the hurtful way in which he had betrayed her trust.

He was about to knock again when the light came on and he saw her shadow move toward the door behind the plate glass. She looked through the glass, paused on recognising him and sighed as she turned the dead bolt on the door, opening it a crack.

"Grissom." There was no warmth to her greeting, no friendliness, just plain disenchantment.

"Hi." He flashed an uncertain smile and shoved his hands in his pants pocket as he swayed a little uncomfortably on his feet. "Is this a bad time?"

"It depends," she replied, keeping her mask firmly in place. "Are you here in a professional capacity?"

"Ah. Business or pleasure," he wondered aloud, his tone light and friendly. He caught her eye, his lips twisting with a hint of a smile, stopping only just short of reaching out a hand and cupping her cheek the way he had done the previous night.

"Both, maybe?" she enquired, her mask slipping slightly, her tone softer now as she read his inner battle.

He shrugged his reply but the smile now dancing on his lips was genuine and warm. "May I come in, _please_?" he asked cheekily, referring back to his less-than-cordial previous visit when Brass had tagged along.

She opened the door a little wider, checking to see if Grissom was accompanied. "No faithful companion?"

"No." He sighed and stepped over the threshold. "Listen, Heather, I've-I've come to apologise. I'm afraid I behaved badly and I-"

"You've already apologised."

Her tone was a little on the curt side, causing his smile to waver slightly. "I also wanted to let you know in person that we arrested and charged one of your employees for-"

"Chloe Samms."

Grissom acquiesced with a nod of the head, not in the least bit surprised that she already knew. "You read my thoughts as well as my lips."

"No. You read lips. I just read your thoughts."

Grissom's chuckle was sincere, amused that she should know him so well, that she should speak her mind so freely, uncensored, something which he found incredibly refreshing and which reminded him a little of Catherine. And as he did Catherine he wanted to think of Heather as a friend. She wasn't a threat to him, to his life, to his career – on the contrary, he knew he would find in her an ally, a kindred spirit, a loyal companion.

"I'm afraid she used your feather boa to-"

"Kill Rebecca McCormick?" she prompted. To which, he nodded, his brow arched in amazement. "Stephen called."

"Ah. Well, I'm afraid you won't get it back."

"I have others."

Grissom smiled. "Always one step ahead."

"It's the nature of the job."

"Indeed." He stared at her a little too long and she flicked her gaze downward. He swayed on his feet a little uncertainly before letting out a short breath. "Heather, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you – your sincerity."

Her eyes levelled with his. "You shouldn't have doubted your instincts."

"Or my heart," he said quietly, referring back to what she'd told him through the two-way mirror in the interrogation room.

"The evidence was against me," she stated simply. "Didn't you once tell me it never lies?"

Her comment raised a smile. "It doesn't – it didn't. It's the way I interpreted it that was flawed."

"Indeed," she agreed, her eyes boring into his, her smile broadening slightly and he knew he was forgiven, that they were back on an even keel. She touched his arm, breaking the spell, causing a jolt of current, of excitement to course through his body, awakening his senses the way it had done the previous night.

"It's very quiet," he remarked suddenly as he came to his senses and looked around the entrance hall.

"I've decided to close for the night in reverence to what's happened." She paused. "Come on in; let me make you a cup of coffee."

Grissom pursed his face regretfully. "I'm sorry. I-I can't." He checked his watch, looking annoyed that he couldn't. "I'm on my way to- I've a crime scene to go to."

She nodded and opened the door wider. "Apology accepted," she said softly as he made to leave.

He paused, acknowledging her words and turned toward the door, then stopped, hesitating and turned back meeting her gaze dead on. "Heather, would you like to have dinner with me?"

She did a double take, caught unaware by his unexpected invitation. "I obviously don't read you as well as I thought," she said her tone light and pleasant.

He remained silent, staring intently, his soft eyes enquiring, prodding, urging her to accept. She stared back and he could see the hesitation in her gaze, the dilemma in her mind. She sighed, looking away. She was the only woman he could read so easily, so openly and he knew straightaway the reasons for her indecision.

Like her, he didn't want their romantic interlude to be any more than just that. However much he'd enjoyed his moment of passion with her – and he had – he knew it could, would never go further. It wasn't because he feared her as she had told him through the two-way mirror while Brass was conducting his interrogation; or because he felt vulnerable and exposed at the fact that she could read him so well, that she knew his deepest fears and insecurities, his foibles like no other being could. No. He knew her just as well. She just wasn't the one. She didn't make him _happy_.

"It's to say sorry," he said quickly before she said no. She looked up with surprise and he smiled softly. "So my apology's more than just words. Two friends sharing a meal together, simply enjoying themselves and…the civilities of dinner. Please."

She smiled back and reached up to kiss his cheek, her lips lingering on his skin just below his ear. "I would love to go out to dinner with you," she murmured, "and for us to be friends."

* * *

A/N: If you've read this far, please leave a review; let me know who you are. I can't be the only one to see the deep connection between them. It would go some way toward explaining too how Grissom put Heather before his relationship with Sara on so many occasions. Thank you for reading and as I said I'd appreciate the feedback.


End file.
